I can’t keep
Track of how much I have
To do, before I leave with
Too many degrees,
Two count, because
I’m bad at math, plus
Or minus a few figure’s but thats
Okay when I can write
My own obituary at the end of my life and leave
You all my hopes I never
Once accomplished while alive but
Dead they’re somehow more
Surreal than when
Then they were just
Dreams I had,
Under the sycamore tree 
Out front on the cool
Summer days when we held hands and talked
Silently for hours about all of
Nothing we had never done and never
Would accomplish, subtracted
By all our hopes and dreams we
Wrote down under our sleeves
And I’ll store those
In a shoe box labeled
“Memories and things, etc” for you to find
Yourself in the words and drawings I’ll have left
Right for you under
The ceiling
We shared
Alone
Together.